


and how the sky gets heavy

by Eisvogel



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisvogel/pseuds/Eisvogel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minho scans the little crowd for a certain face but he sees only Alby’s stern face and his knowing, dark eyes;<br/>“It’s one of these days,” he says without further ado, without hello or welcome back or why the shuck did you take so long to come back? because it isn’t the first time Minho took this long and Alby’s said it often enough.<br/>“Bad?” he asks.... [Minho/Newt]</p>
            </blockquote>





	and how the sky gets heavy

**De | pres | sion**

 

 _feelings of severe despondency and dejection_

 

*

 

Minho comes back late from the maze this evening. The others Runners are already back at the Glade, gathered around the entrance and waiting for their Keeper. He can see the relief flooding their faces as he jogs around the corner and out of the maze, his steps echoing loud from the high walls. He scans the little crowd for a certain face but he sees only Alby’s stern face and his knowing, dark eyes;

“It’s one of these days,” he says without further ado, without _hello_ or _welcome back_ or _why the shuck did you take so long to come back?_ because it isn’t the first time Minho took this long and Alby’s said it often enough. 

“Bad?” he asks while the other Runners go back to the Homestead or the kitchen where the smell of food is already filling the air. He hears Frypan screaming something and the loud laughter of some of the boys. Still his eyes are scanning the Glade, restlessly moving over all the well-known faces. Only the greenie stands next to them, confused and curious and Minho wants to shove him away, doesn’t want him to hear this conversation. 

“Yeah,” Alby says, his eyes wandering over to Thomas as well and he, too, doesn’t seem to want him to know. “Bad.”

So Minho walks past them, breaking out into a jog, then a run, while he hears Thomas voice, “What was that about? What’s bad? Is today some day special?” and leaves Alby to answer all these questions. It’s not that he doesn’t like the greenie, he is in awe of his bravery even though he would never admit it out loud, but this is something which is none of his concern.

He walks through the forest, rays of sunshine illuminating his way partially, the light already turning into an orange glow. He carefully avoids their make-shift graveyard, sees out of the corner of his eyes the bones of the skeletons peaking out of the earth, the sticks pin-pointing where they have buried them and the rotten flowers. 

On George’s there are fresh, yellow flowers.

Behind the little river is an old, big oak with thick branches all way to the top. Halfway there, they have build a little platform when they were only five boys in the Glade and after two of them died, Alby, Newt and Minho never told anyone about this place. Most of the boys don’t come here because they are afraid of the graveyard. The tree already has smooth parts from where they have climbed up every so often, carves and wounds where they have tried to build a ladder and failed. 

Newt is lying on the platform, on the little make-shift bed of blankets and pillows and stares into the sky. It’s slowly turning orange and red and purple and dark blue and the faint twittering of birds grows quiet. He doesn’t move when Minho climbs onto the platform and sits down next to him, doesn’t recognize him in any way but Minho knows he’s aware of him.

Newt always is.

“No hello?” he asks softly, jokingly, but Newt doesn’t response, only stares up into the sky, legs and arms stretched out and his face expressionless. 

Alby was right.

It is a bad day. 

For some minutes, they stay quiet. Minho lies down next to him, makes himself comfortable, arms crossed behind his head. His elbows are touching Newt’s shoulders and he takes it as positive sign that the other boy doesn’t pull away. He listens to their breathing, to the one or two lasts birds which are singing in the twilight, the sky over them turning darker and darker. It gets fresher as well, so Minho pulls a blanket over both of them and for a quick second, their eyes meet. 

“What are you thinking about?” he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at Newt who is staring up at the treetop again.

“… nothing, I guess,” his voice is hushed and Minho notices how sad he sounds. 

“Do you want to eat something? Frypan probably managed to set something aside for us. Potatoes.”

Newt doesn’t answer. 

With a little sigh, Minho lies down on his side, his hand reaching up and slowly stroking Newt’s cheek. It feels damp and sticky as if he has cried and suddenly Minho feels a sharp twist in his gut and his gaze flickers down to Newt’s knee and the nasty scars covered up by his pants. Almost hurriedly, he scooting closer, lays his hand down on Newt’s stomach.

To his surprise, he feels cold fingers intertwine with his. 

“Is today a bad day?” he asks into the silence between them and Newt makes a little sound at the back of his throat and nods. 

“We can stay here,” he whispers into Newt’s hair and feels his scrawny body shudder against him. It doesn’t take long before he breaks down and silent tears fall down his cheeks, a barely audible sob escaping his quivering lips. Minho pulls him in, burrows his nose into his soft hair and hums a melody he made up some day, years ago, when Newt had his first bad day. 

He keeps humming until the sobs cease and Newt turns around, his cold nose pressed against Minho’s warm collarbone, his long fingers gripping onto Minho’s shirt as if he’s afraid the other boy would leave. Minho strokes over his head, his neck, down between his shoulder blades and repeats it. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Until…

“I don’t even know why today is a bad day,” Newt whispers brokenly and the desperation in his voice tears Minho apart. He pulls him in tighter, lets his hand linger on soft hairs of his neck. “Yesterday everything was fine, everything was _good_ and today… I just don’t know _why_.”

“It’s okay,” Minho says against his forehead, chapped lips softly touching warm, soft skin, “You don’t have to. We all have these days.”

But they both know that nobody’s bad days are as bad as Newt’s. 

They are a _different kind of bad_ , a kind of bad which is hard to describe. Somehow, Minho knows that some time ago, a time he can’t remember now, he knew a word for his kind of bad. He tried remembering, o god he tried, but he _can’t_. Because maybe, some time ago, they also knew a way to make Newt feel better. 

But he just can’t remember.

Minho’s eyes flicker down to Newt’s leg again and as if the other boy could feel his gaze, he says, “I haven’t thought about that today.”

Minho looks up.

Newt’s eyes are glassy and red-rimmed and _tired_ but they are also honest.

“It’s not that bad,” Newt adds and Minho can’t help the small smile forming on his lips. 

“I’m glad,” he says and with a somewhat relieved smile he kisses Newt’s forehead, softly, cautiously, because sometimes Newt shies away from it but his time he doesn’t. His thin arms find their way around Minho’s broad torso and he hugs him, tight, and Minho hears him swallowing, hard, as if he has to swallow down all the words which are trying to flee from his mouth. 

“I wouldn’t leave you,” he whispers finally into the soft-worn cotton of Minho’s shirt and Minho can feel his hot breath through it on his skin. “I wouldn’t do it again.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Only if you wouldn’t come back from the maze.”

And Minho thinks, that’s fair, because if Newt would try his stunt with the vines again he probably would stay in the maze willingly over night, waiting for the high screeches to find him.

He breathes in deep and exhales loudly as the words he wants to say don’t come out with it, so with his next breath he says, “I’ll come back every day. And one day, I’ll come back and take you with me because I’ve finally found an exit.”

But they both know he’s lying. 

Newt knows the little model in the Maps Room, knows that they have already searched every corner of the maze – because he searched with them until it happened – and he also knows the only way out of here is probably the top of the vines or a night with the grievers. 

But still, Newt says, “I hope so”, and snuggles deeper into Minho’s embrace. 

 

Silently, they listen to the voices of the trees around them and the echoes of voices from the boys. They hear them laughing and screaming and running through under-wood. When Minho turns his head slightly, he can see the red and orange glow of their camp fire through the tree trunks and black silhouettes flickering through the shine. Newt lies quietly in his arms, hot breath ghosting over Minho’s collarbone. 

Minho is so caught up in his own thoughts and the feeling of Newt’s soft skin under his finger tips as he strokes under his grey shirt and over his back, that the sudden voice scares him almost of off the platform. He rockets upwards, pulling Newt with him, pressing the boy protectively against him. 

“Hey! Uh-oh, oh, sorry,” it’s only Thomas, cheeks tinting red from embarrassment and he lifts his hands defensively up in the air. “Sorry, I… I didn’t want to disturb you.”  
Minho lets his strong grip around Newt soften but to his surprise Newt doesn’t move away. Instead, he hides his face in Minho’s neck and… oh, bad day, today is a bad day. And no one has seen Newt during of these except Alby and he. 

Thomas, though, doesn’t seem to get it.

“Are you… are you alright Newt? Is something wrong with him?” he asks Minho, as Minho wraps his arms around Newt again, pulling him close. 

“Today is a bad day,” he says shortly, not wanting to sound rude but also not wanting Thomas up here with him and Newt when Newt was feeling so… so bad. 

“Oh,” Thomas makes a sympathetic noise and seems to be struggling between climbing up to them and climbing down again. “I… I’ve just brought you something to eat. Alby said Newt should eat and that you need it, as well. I… I better go, right?” Neither Newt nor Minho says something, so Thomas shrugs his shoulders and puts the food down, obviously uncomfortable with the situation, and adds, “I… I hope you get better, soon, Newt.” Then, he climbs down again and they hear him stumbling through the grass and sticks and falling over his own feet. 

“Everything alright?” Minho asks softly into Newt’s hair and receives a silent nod as an answer. 

They lie down again and in the distance the sounds of the other boys slowly die down. They all are probably going to bed now and for a moment, Minho thinks about persuading Newt to back to the Homestead again but … he shifts around and feels Newt’s fingers clawing into his shirt, his breath hitching up, petrified, and discards the idea again. He pulls another blanket over them, mindful of covering Newt properly with it and says, “I’m not gonna run tomorrow.”

Newt looks up, confused and about to say something against it, but Minho hushes him; “Ben can lead them for one day. They all know which sector they have to cover. They will do just fine.” 

Newt gazes down again, his hold on Minho a little bit stronger than before. And he thinks Newt is already asleep, the boy shifts slightly, his soft lips grazing against the hot skin of his collarbone;

“Thank you.”  


**Author's Note:**

> So, since none of them can remember their life from before I thought it'd be logical that they can't remember what depression is and that it's an illness -- so they can't remember the term 'being depressed' as well. 
> 
> Since I'm not a native speaker, there may be some (or probably plenty of) spelling mistakes. Also, not beta'd ;)


End file.
